Planescape: Torment - Aftermath
by Amaterai
Summary: Taking from where the game has ended from Fall-from-Grace's POV. I may keep it as a standalone story or I may develop it into exploring the dynamics between the Tanar'Ri and the tiefling with *maybe*, eventually, Grace-Annah. Theirs can not be your standard romance pairing though, and maybe that is what makes it so interesting to explore.
1. Chapter 1

**Note**: First of all, Planescape Torment is one of my favorite games of all times, and always will be. It made a very deep impression on me, back in 1999. When I heard that the spiritual successor kickstarted, I re-played the game, and this short dabble being the product it. You won't have much fun reading this if you don't know the game.

I have my yuri goggles on writing this, I admit that. But I always found that Annah held a sort of fascination for Fall-from-Grace. And while Annah practically hates all about the Tanar'ri, I think it's mainly her underlying general distrust in people, jealousy and her insecurity that caused this animosity. As for Grace, a natural empath, I think she can relate to a lot in Annah.

And I always wondered that, after the loss of the Nameless One they both harbored feelings for to a more or lesser degree, if they wouldn't maybe deal with that loss together.

I actually have an idea about how to make this eventually an Annah-Grace pairing of sorts, but not sure if I should or if I can stick to it. But anyway, let me know your thoughts. :-)  
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**Sigil**  
**Fall-from-Grace**

The five of us arrived in Sigil together, but our party soon dissolved after HE was gone. Dak'kon and Nordom took their leave almost immediately. Dak'kon would return to his people in Limbo. His faith had been re-forged by his own hands, even if HE had guided him, and while Dak'kon knew, there were no chains holding him down now but those of all lawful.

Nordom had wandered off, eager to explore the Planes and himself, and I watched him wander down the busy streets, crossbows clicking happily and reminding me of a child, open to all around him. The Sensate in me smiled.

That left Morte, Annah and me.

Morte was all too happy to take quarters in the Civic Festhall, and Annah stayed as well, which surprised me at first. But soon I realized that her reason was utter apathy rather than interest in the Sensate order or in our company. She would sit in her room and stare at nothing, not speak, barely eat. I felt her pain. Morte and I grieved deeply for HIM, but both of us felt that our grief did no compare to hers. Emotion had always burned in the tiefling with almost unmatched intensity, and there had been so many moments during our journey with HIM to see them burn bright so that even her deep animosity towards me held a fascination for me, triggering an echo of something long gone, twisted and transformed.

I was almost relieved when she started crying three days later. I had never seen Morte act so tactful, much less to Annah. I had been witness to their endless insult-hurling of which neither seemed to grow tired. And I had witnessed, in many a battle, how they'd guarded each other's backs. Only to resume their quarreling moments later. I can't tell if they know – that their arguments became the only acceptable way for them to show they cared.

Morte joined the revelry of the main halls, acting his usual self, talking to everyone and telling a hundred different tales of our journey. He himself had a lot to think about, a lot of pain and regret, even as he joked and flirted (with as much success as a floating skull can achieve) and would soon become the latest attraction at the festhall. HIS departure had affected him deeply as well.

A few days later, I was alerted by the sounds of breaking furniture from Annah's room. I tried the door, but it was locked. I knocked anyway, hoping that she'd hear me.

"Annah?" I spoke, and she must've heard me because the room grew silent, and it was deafening.

"Pike off, Tanar'ri," I heard her voice finally, quiet and tired, devoid of the usual venom when she addressed me.

Foolishly, at the start I had believed that she and I could become…not friends, but at least companions during our journey across the planes; had we not travelled with HIM, I would have moved heaven and earth to make her join my Brothel for Slaking Intellectual Lusts. She was an unfiltered being through and through, wearing her heart on her sleeve; so distrustful, clever, hurt and angry at everyone and everything, a survivor, unruly and prickly and fearful in an almost superstitious way. And she had been the first to lay down her life for HIM without a moment's thought.

I found the simple genuineness of her being, her free-spirit and the depth of her *feeling* not only endearing. I admit that in a way I was jealous of them. And yet, she was in chains as all of us who accompanied him were, still are, in a way.

She often reminded me of a wild animal cornered, growling and snapping at anyone approaching too much. The more I learned of her and the longer we travelled, the more her spite hurt me, though gods know I can control my emotions, what to show. When did this become my nature rather than the way to freedom from Baatezu slavery?

It had to become my nature. That simple.

My shield was composure as much as her sharp tongue was hers. That she couldn't elicit a reaction from me irritated her to no end, and again I took a secret form of pleasure in watching her, even as it increased the rift between us.

HE had intrigued me in a way that I was not able to grasp in its entirety at first. That alone would have been the reason for a true Sensate to join him, learn more about the whys of this attraction. Then I could name another reason. HIS torment drawing those who suffered, in one way or another, to him. How that reason exposed me to myself as nothing had in a very long time.

HIS countless lives had shaped, twisted and mangled his being, outside matching inside so it was so easy to see. I felt compassion, affection, and a deep connection to this man who had been once been human.

And yet, I know that even as I first talked to him that I noticed Annah.

I knew it was Tanar'ri blood that made her a tiefling, so driven by feeling rather than thought, by her nature rather than law, seemingly free as is the illusion of those who do not know chaos. Her intense dislike amused me. Then, it saddened me.

I caught myself looking at her, wondering if I'd turned out to be as intense as her, consumed and driven by the nature of one's being, had I not been enslaved before my own nature had really unfolded. Had I been like her maybe, once, so long ago?

It was still inside me. Sometimes stirring as if a memory, a shadow of something that had to die so I could be free. Only to sink back into the deepest depths of me. Had it surfaced, even once, I wouldn't have broken free.

But I'd still been true to myself. Not something that sometimes, in brooding moments, feels just like a stale echo of a sound that only lingers, but is gone.

I am broken, just as HE was. Through the millennia I have mended, shaped myself into a form that would receive the being that eventually left Baator. And yet…I don't *feel* intensively, despite my achievements, despite the pride I take in the me that I have shaped. I am what I wanted to become to be at peace with myself, to the extent that was possible.

And yet.

And yet, I cannot help but feel a form of envy, even as I hear the grief in Annah's voice, an envy that so often makes me want to reach out and touch what I am no longer.


	2. Chapter 2

„She is what?!"

Morte stares at me in disbelief. I admit that I sometimes still marvel at his mimic abilities, more so as his skull lacks a great portion of flesh and tissue.

"She is gone," I repeat calmly, though I know he understood perfectly well the first time. "When I finally had the door to her room opened, the window was open wide. It appears that she took the…shortest way out."

There is a moment of silence in which Morte is at a rare loss for words.

"That…that stupid fiendling," he finally growls, which considering that this is Morte is the least eloquent attempt at an insult I have ever heard from him. He must be truly shocked.

"Ah well, good riddance anyway, why should she stick around, she'd scared off all these hot chicks in the Festhall anyway, what with that really bad temper an' all…I swear, if it hadn't been for the Chief..."

What follows is Morte slowly talking himself into a rant to point out just how happy he is that Annah is gone, and all of it just shows how hurt it is that the tiefling didn't say goodbye.

And this makes me wonder just how much HIS presence held our unlikely party together. HIS gravity was the reason, because what would have been the odds of individuals so different in alignment and personality to travel together for so long. Morte and Annah the longest, come to think of it. HIS goal was ours and kept us in line - if barely, for some of us. With HIM gone, it seems that the at times strained discipline evaporated, leaving no other bonds behind other than perhaps respect at best. Nothing held us together but HE.

Is it mere melancholy on my side to realize that, given the impact our journey had on each of us, that life now seems to just go on?

At the threshold of death so many times, I don't think any of us was thinking ahead more than the next day, the next battle, the next piece in the puzzle that was HE. And it appears that none of us had a purpose strong enough to elude his gravity so that our own lives became secondary to helping him on his quest for his mortality. I would like to believe that all of us came out of this stronger than before. But it's not the case. Vhailor and Ignus perished in this, through him. It is easy to say they did because they deserved it, but what is easy most often fails to cover the entire truth. Dak'kon and Nordom – I am hopeful, but do I really know? What about us then – Morte, Annah. Me.

Have we changed at all? Has the pain lessened? Are we less lost than before, I wonder? What if HE had forgiven Morte before the end? What if he had looked at Annah the way she wanted him to (would it have been genuine, or would it have been Deionarra all over again?)? And…what did I desire from him? Do I dare to ask myself that?

Am I the only one asking myself these questions?

I thought about confiding in Dolora with some of these thoughts. Isn't that the nature of light after all - that we can only see through what is reflected back at us? But I am not accustomed to sharing this particular part of myself, for as much as I seem to be transparent and at ease with myself in all other respects. Like this journal that I keep, it's that part of the me that will never be exposed. Not even to HIM.

Instead, I eventually went to talk to Kessai to tell her about her mother Ravel. Kessai had avoided me ever since I had returned, but I had often felt her gaze when I was at the brothel. Her unasked question. When I finally approached her, she didn't want to listen at first. But in the end, it was her that asked, in a tone of voice that was small in a way I had never heard in Kessai.

Had her mother been the cruel night hag of the tales after all?

How would one describe the riddle that was Ravel? A being so overwhelmingly old, clever, and powerful, and even that fails to even cover a fraction of what she had been.

"She was…more than that", I said finally. And I knew it was the best answer I could give.

I didn't tell Kessai how Ravel had seen through me with so much as a glance, had pierced through my carefully elaborated creation as if it were paper and not the work of countless years. For a briefest moment her gaze shook at my foundation, my composure gone, and in her eyes my efforts had seemed wasted and futile. That I had destroyed my true nature, and that I had failed to adequately fill the void. A second best that nevertheless felt right and comforting through the confirmation, respect and admiration received from Sigil's inhabitants – even love, should I so desire – and from the pride in having tricked the Baatezu, in having overcome the limits of my blood. In finding a belief strong enough to make me a priest without a deity.

Displaying the brief, effortless unravelling of me and the others pleased her. But we were less than insects in her eyes after all, she only cared for HIM. And she had unraveled him too and fully knew herself for him to be her weakness and indulgence. She could have escaped the Lady's prison, but she didn't.

To see and know so much, so many things done, so many things witnessed, and when so few things seem to matter anymore…how can cruelty, or what we perceived as such, not emerge from this?

"You think she went back to the Hive?"

Morte's words break my train of thoughts. I look at him and even if it is not physically possible, I can *feel* him bite a metaphorical lip.

"I mean…it's not that I would go looking for her, Abyss no. I am just wondering y'know…people have to be warned," he continues, a tad defensively. I hide my smile in order to not embarrass him, and we leave it at that. It is pointless after all to dwell on it. Annah left to live her life however she deems fit. Our little party has scattered. It is time to move on.

Morte didn't go looking for her. And neither did I.


	3. Chapter 3

Looking back, the weeks and months that followed were of trying to fit back into the life that I had left and finally realizing that, for better or worse, it did not quite fit the Fall-from-Grace that had returned from the Fortress of Regret. In the ever changing city that is Sigil, I found that the journey with HIM had initiated a next stage in my existence, and with that realization grew my excitement even though I had but a vague notion of where this would take me.

I had not realized how stalled my life had been, and that the incitements that the Sensate order facilitated were second-handed in comparison to what I had been facing as I had travelled with HIM. Something was stirring me, and questioning myself became less and less painful and instead held promises of new experiences, of an evolving me past the indulging position of Mistress Grace.

Maybe it was not just the conflict that still tugged at me which had drawn me to him, I mused then. Maybe it was the unacknowledged chance of shedding a skin I had started to outgrow even before meeting him, and something within me had jumped at the opportunity.

If that was true, there were still more things to learn about myself, and the thought caused an excitement in me that was both unfamiliar and welcome like a lost friend.

I also thought about the promise I had made to HIM, the last time we spoke. That I would seek HIM out, that HE and I would meet again, no matter where HE would be or what form HE would have taken by then. And even though I knew that time was not a major component in this plan, I was equally aware that the man of our journey and the man that had been reunited with his mortality were not one and the same.

In truth, I had felt closer to the seeker than to the entity that had had sent us back to Sigil. I had been able to relate to him in many ways, but with the return of all of his memories and his transcendence into his next stage of existence, we were the experience of but one incarnation of many, even if his last one could only compare to his first life. The Blood War awaited him and an entity such as he would endure for a long time in the Lower Planes before transforming, dissolving or until the Planes themselves would be taken by Entropy to a new, all-encompassing cycle.

Through our journey, I was repeatedly, sometimes painfully reminded of the question where my own essence would end up upon my true and final death. Is it the Abyss, after all, or is there a plane reserved for the likes of me? Maybe my essence will be torn apart and lost, or maybe what is my essence is still Tanar'Ri, no matter how much I think I have changed. Maybe what is our essence, our soul, is truly unchanging like some scholars claim – much to the Godsmen's dismay, I suppose. And is it the very last moment of life that matters, or is it what we came into existence with all along. Will the Abyss feel like a home then, I wonder? There was familiarity in entering the Nine Hells as well. The smell there was less a stench and more a recollection that made my skin crawl, and yet I felt I was stronger fighting the Baatezu creatures on their home plane than in many other battles.

For some reason, the memory made me think of Annah, and if it had been the same for her, or totally different? Oh, she had been afraid and terribly so, and yet her daggers had been merciless and had slain many a Baatezu. And yet, had one half of her being called out to her in that moment? I knew she'd never have answered such questions had I asked, and so I didn't. The reason I'd have been thrilled about having her at my intellectual brothel was the prospect of what understanding I could have gained by talking to her, especially as I know that I am not yet prepared yet for this last, final encounter with HIM. What I seek to ask, to gain from this encounter needs to crystallize in my mind (oh, how my former Baatezu masters would rejoice at my careful planning and patience), and I am far from ready. But I can make preparations.

The gathering of intelligence gave my restless mind a purpose and steered it into a new direction, even though I still oversaw what was needed at the Brothel of Slating Intellectual Lusts and shared experiences and viewpoints at the Sensate order, exotic enough for many, but none of them allowing a glimpse into me further of what I was willing to impart. But it didn't fill out my life as it had before. And I sensed that it would be a matter of time before I might leave Sigil entirely.

I sought out those who had been to the Lower planes or had returned from serving in the Blood War, mortal and immortal alike, in hopes of hearing of a powerful pawn whose description would match HIS, though I was fully aware of the chances. The Blood War is vast and rages on countless battlefields after all. But I have time on my hands and, though less of it than HE should the need of quantification arise, a lot of it in fact.

Some of the people I talked to I was able to contact through the pretext of my position in the Sensate order. There had been one contact, a tall, broad-shouldered tiefling with tousled auburn hair who had served in a mercenary battalion for the Baatezu and who was happy to share his experiences to a broad audience of Sensates at the Clerk Ward's market place. His description of the battles he had survived, winning him his ticket back to Sigil, featured various monstrosities of all sizes, shape and origin, including a gray-skinned barbarian wielding club and magic alike and who had felled Baatezu and Tanar'Ri alike – though this is not uncommon in the huge Blood War battles where tens, if not hundreds of thousands battle on for endless days and where loyalties within one and the same army are volatile. Later on, I had the chance of talking to him face-to-face at the Festhall, only to find out that the man he had described had been a tale of a battle that had taken place when we had still travelled with HIM. Despite the momentary disappointment, I knew that finding HIM was not impossible.

Some intelligence I gathered through intermediaries – Vrischika's shop was such a place where showing my face would have spoiled any chances of success. But I have many friends - or at least acquaintances- after all, in many places. It is strange that most of them, if not all, are mortal. Immortals are bewildered meeting me, hostile or at least suspicious as if there was a grand scheme behind the identity of Mistress Grace, the fallen (or reformed, depending on your viewpoint) succubus Tanar'Ri. They don't know where to place me when immortals usually adhere to their alignment and nature – a change such as mine (does it run as deep as I think?) is unthinkable or takes great circumstances to happen. Not a slow, self-imposed change – or shall I say break - such as mine. Vrischika's contempt and hatred – is it because she sees me as a traitor; or is it because she is jealous. Tanar'Ri may be chaotic, erratic, violent, passionate and many other things. But the illusion of freedom, of free choice, this is something that intelligent Tanar'Ri hold just as high as lust and power.

Morte, who had seamlessly blended into the Sensate order and had started to make friends and foes alike and couldn't be happier about both, is still seeking my company. We rarely talk about HIM anymore, but one day he outright asked me if I was truly planning to look for HIM.

I feigned no surprise – Morte had watched me after all, and in more than one occasion I had seen him approach the people I had talked to before, those I considered a possible source of information to locate HIM. His blunt question indicated that he had already made the connection.

"I don't give my word lightly," I replied, and Morte nodded, equally unsurprised.

"He…he's not the Chief anymore, you know," he said, after a moment.

"No, indeed he is not."

"Why would you seek him out then?"

Why indeed. Among all the people around me, Morte might be the one I would actually tell the truth. Eventually. If I were able to voice it yet. And even though it might very well be rude, I didn't answer his question. He didn't seem cross with me however.

"Let me know once you spot him. I…I think I'd like to come with you once you know where he is. For old times."

I was moved, because I knew he really meant it. But I sensed that there would at least be another reason.

"Morte, is it because he didn't forgive you?"

Morte looked away.

"No, that's not it. And I would have cared only for this last incarnation's forgiveness anyway. But…I have been part of his incarnation cycle for so long, and he was a part of my existence for most of the time I can remember. And even now that he's gone...," Morte struggled momentarily to find the right words "…his presence continues on the planes, somehow, somewhere. I…I suppose I just want to see for myself what has become of him."

At that point we were interrupted by a growing commotion in the main hall. A fellow Sensate approached, her face colored in excitement.

"Mistress Grace, a portal from the Abyss seems to have opened, right in the Clerk's Ward! A few minor demons go through it seems, and the Mercykillers are battling them like…right now. If we hurry, we might catch the end of the battle."

I didn't share the enthusiasm – the voyeurism that is often ill-disguised among the Sensates holds no appeal, and a battle among fiends holds no thrill or insight for me. Nevertheless, in Sigil my healing powers bring a certain responsibility, so I hurried outside along several other faction members. Morte, teeth clacking in either excitement or agitation or both, was floating beside me.

The portal had opened a mere hundred yards away from the Festhall staircase and was already shrinking, flickering in a green-reddish hue. Three Mercykillers, easily identifiable in their huge armors, lay on the ground near the portal along with a dozen lower Tanar'Ri, all teeth and claw and instinct. The others had already been surrounded by more Mercykillers who were making short work of them. Since the demons wielded no magic and were held in check by Sigil's guards, a crowd had gathered around the portal within a certain safety distance, and from that crowd I heard my name being called out to aid the wounded as the last demon was slew. I could almost feel the Mercykiller captain's teeth grinding as I made my way through the crowd to the skirmish site. The Mercykillers do not exactly hold the Sensates in high esteem after all, but not even a Mercykiller looks a gift healer in the mouth, and especially not in public.

One of the Mercykiller guards was still moving, and I could hear his soft groans of pain. I knelt down beside him, prepared to invoke a healing spell when my gaze fell on two figures that lay motionless, half-buried beneath demon corpses. One I recognized as the tiefling mercenary from the marketplace.

The other was Annah.


	4. Chapter 4

One does not need to possess the sharp senses of a Tanar'Ri to hear the murmured conversation around us as an unconscious Annah was carried into the Festhall and towards my quarters.

"She was lucky that Mistress Grace showed up, that tiefling girl sure looked dead to me."

"Do you know who she is?"

"I think she's a Sensate, I've seen her around a couple of times."

"I don't think she's a Sensate."

"She sure seems to know Mistress Grace. What an ungrateful bitch though."

"She's kinda pretty, but that tail..."

"This is not over yet. The Mercykillers will have her hide."

I chose my quarters for a lot of reasons, most of all because I fear for another round of smashed furniture once Annah regains her senses and her strength. She might as well break the inventory of my spare room instead of another Festhall guest chamber.

Not everyone knows who Annah is and that she and I used to be travel companions – the Festhall is full or stories of planewalks and adventures after all, and HIS story ends up being one of many – so in addition to the semi-whispered comments there were glances of bewilderment and curiosity following us.

Morte floated besides me quietly, just teeth clacking once in a while. I wonder if his mind was following the same train of thoughts as mine.

Through whatever means, Annah must've gotten the tiefling mercenary to lead her back to the Lower Planes in search for what she must've thought was HE. Not that I think I'll ever learn how she convinced him as the mercenary is dead now, and it is rather unlikely that Annah will tell me.

She was there when the tiefling had been telling his story.

Was it coincidence or had she been watching my steps all along? I should have known that she would not give up on HIM so easily. Why didn't it occur to me that she would be looking for HIM as well?

After Annah was laid down onto a bed in the spare room, I studied her for a moment. She was paler than usual, but there is no doubt that she'll be fine. I would not be surprised if she woke up in less than a few hours even, more than anything it is exhaustion and the sudden rupture of the healing process that has caused her current state. That and the blow to her head.

It were these few moments when I brought her back from the brink of death that were replaying in my mind's eye, and only when Morte cleared his throat I realized that I must've been studying her for more than just a moment.

"Maybe it's a good idea I keep an eye on her. You know…when she wakes up," he ventured, and I was grateful for his suggestion. I guess we both agree that it would not be the best idea if it was me again whom Annah sees once she regains her senses.

"Don't worry, if she goes crazy I'll make her chase me around until I get her out of the Festhall. If she doesn't collapse first. Then we can start all over again," Morte added cheerfully, and I chuckled quietly in spite of myself.

"Thank you, Morte."

"Naw, don't mention it, it'll be fun. Almost like old times," he said, clacking his teeth as if in anticipation before he sobered momentarily.

"She shouldn't have done that, you know."

"I think both of us can imagine why she did what she did."

Morte looked at me pensively for a moment before finally nodding.

Now back in my own room next door, I finally allow myself to wrap my mind around what has happened. Annah's and my paths crossing again most unexpectedly. My bringing her back from the brink of death. The look in her eyes when she recognized me, and what I was doing to her.

The fascination – dark, forbidden and therefore oh so luring - that succubi hold over mortals has prompted many a visitor to my brothel to ask me, one that is perceived as a "reformed" succubus, what it is like to take a soul and drain the life energy from a mortal's body. Funny enough, the existence of succubi proves the concept of both soul and life energy, something which many a plane, especially those that ignore the existence of the multiverse and Sigil, rejects or at least wonders if they even exist.

Soul. Life energy. Life energy sustains the mortal form, while the soul is what passes on, pulled by gravity of kinship. It is the strength of the soul that decides if it dissolves into or absorbs kin essence, forming new entities. Succubi take in life energy for sustenance to fuel their power while dooming the soul to the Abyss, are recruiters to ensure the Tanar'Ri ranks remain endless. And yet even in the Abyss existence is not stagnant – nor is it in Elysium or any other Higher Plane, for that matter. Souls transform into demons, they grow, learn, evolve, dissolve and reform.

And sometimes, they transcend.

It is rare enough an occurrence, but given the sheer vastness of the multiverse even a rare occurrence has its numbers. With the multiverse in motion as it is, I am often surprised that I still seem to be such an exception among my kind. Though I admit that it feeds my vanity.

How does a succubus gain the ability to heal rather than kill? It is actually not as far-fetched as many think. It entails the discipline of reversing the flow of energy; a discipline and willingness that succubi do not – and should not, given their task at hand - possess by nature. Today I can see it as just untapped potential. But I did not always think like this.

Oh, how I remember the hunger that I endured in Baator, a hunger that cut through my being, forced me to my knees and made me a puppet for a long, long time. The Baatezu are as cunning as they are wicked, and they study their enemies and often take more pleasure in subduing their minds rather than their bodies. After all, isn't their ultimate goal to show that their ways, that their laws, rule supreme over everything else? To twist others in their image – many a plane can tell a tale of that. Showing me the error of my Tanar'Ri ways was easy.

My succubus nature, doomed me to a succubus' hell. I was not able to feed on mortals, and my masters enjoying showing me just how much a Tanar'Ri demon was below them, wild and craving and HUNGRY beyond imagining. I screamed, ranted and raged, convulsed, rebelled, only to find that it was futile and pointless and exactly what they wanted, which enraged by only further, to the Baatezu's amusement. For a while I tried to perish, to kill my shell so my essence would return to the Abyss to be reshaped into a lower form. Everything would be preferable than the hunger that savaged me. But even that escape route they blocked.

When I look back at my former self, I know that the one who had rejoiced in her nature for the brief time of her existence, having been sold to the Baatezu at an early stage, had to die to give way to transformation as the only form of escape.

It took a long, long time, and each step was paid with another small breaking, another subtle death, another abandonment of who I was.

To many it might seem that to fall from Tanar'Ri grace is a blessing and should be celebrated rather than mourned. I don't see it that way, even today.

The lustful hunger that drives you forward, the hunger that is satisfied so deliciously as the life energy is pulled from the body in an often violent, ravenous ripping and the sheer exhiliration as it becomes part of you. The feeling is indescribable. It is the moment that succubi literally live for, never do they feel more *alive* than in such moments. No risk or threat is too high against such prize, and nothing compares to it. Nothing at all. I know what I am saying.

The first thing I eventually learned was self-sufficiency; how little was really needed to sustain me. Oh, I was weak, no doubt about that, and far from being able to maintain the pleasing form by which I am known as Fall-from-Grace. I started to feel it though. A soft, gentle pulling, the imperceptible remnants of life lingering in the air, like heat or sweat that a body exudes, and yet scraps compared to the richness of life that permeates the mortal form. There was little of that in Baator, but it was enough. I learned to live on scraps, to pull even the tiniest flicker from my surroundings. It was a lesson I don't know I was supposed to learn, but I did, eventually, humiliating as it was. That I would survive, low and weak, was the second realization, and I knew I had to be very careful about it, just as I had to be with the many lessons that followed. In that way, I could relate to the Zerthimon in Dak'kon's tale, and how he had overcome his illithid masters. How he had observed and hidden the self-discovery he had made, biding his time

Even when I still possess the ability to take a life in the…conventional way, the gratification nowadays compares to pure nourishment only, and sometimes it leaves a somewhat stale taste in my mouth. And this is why I know that I don't live intensely. Conversely, it makes it easier to release the life force for healing purposes. A strange notion, actually too alien to even occur to a succubus, to give up that energy, to direct it at somebody else.

Pulling life energy from my surroundings takes a time and is tedious and inefficient compared to the draining of a living source. In Sigil, it grew easier thanks to its mostly mortal population, and when I had traveled with HIM the fights had supplied me with enough life energy to heal my comrades, but it was HE who would bring them back from death as such spell would usually leave my reservoir depleted.

Ultimately, this is the reason the tiefling mercenary is on his way to the Dustmen crematory. He would have survived, his injuries were far less serious than Annah's, and I would've healed him as well had my resources not been insufficient for a spell of this magnitute, and time was too short. I could sense it as I touched Annah, could feel how her body had started to shut down, how her soul readied itself. So I pulled from him what was needed.

I take no joy in that what I did. But I made a choice, just like I had when I killed HIS foes in battle.

His life energy filled me, became part of me and I felt the familiar prickle as it permeated my being before I focused it into the spell. I placed my hand on Annah's chest and established the link, felt how skin and tissue and bones mended and re-formed, felt how her faint heartbeat strengthened, and in that moment it occured to me that it was the first time that I was touching Annah. During our travels, she had prefered needle and thread or potions over my healing spells, and more than once she had threatened to cut my wings off should I ever touch her when healing her, which made healing not impossible, just more difficult and time consuming. If HE had not intervened at some point, I think she would have forbidden me to heal her altogether, even in the most dire moments, but she grudgingly gave in after HE stated she was too important to HIM to risk death over such petty disputes.

With a gasp Annah's eyes flew open as her lungs took in much needed air, and her eyes bore into mine, wild and wide as life rushed from me into her mending body, the spell nearing completion. For one long moment, she just kept staring at me as her mind slowly registered what was happening. Then her eyes narrowed.

I didn't even see the blow coming.

It wasn't a strong punch and surprised me more than it hurt, but it managed to break to link before the spell had had time to heal her completely.

Annah staggered to her feet, her eyes blazing in frustration and anger and something else that even now I am not able to decipher, and made a half-hearted attempt at drawing her daggers.

The next moment, she toppled over. From behind, the Mercykiller captain had knocked her out with the pommel of his sword.

I managed to appease the commotion that ensued, able to convince the Mercykiller captain that I knew Annah, that she was not crazy, and that she had most assuredly still been in a daze when she had drawn her daggers. It was to my advantage that we were in the Clerk's and not the Lady's Ward and that most of the crowd where Sensates. Eventually, the captain allowed me to take Annah to the Festhall to recover, but he made it clear that Annah would be questioned once awake.

I refrained from healing her a second time.


End file.
